Frieden im Krieg
by frl.baroque
Summary: "Those who can win a war well can rarely make a good peace, and those who could make a good peace would never have won the war". Of forsaking camaraderie for a life-cause but finding no better cause for life than camaraderie.


**Chapter One:**

Late in the evening, just before the advent of night, has been—and remains still—a nervous time. When the shadows bleed into masses and their owners either grow ominous or fall back to safer ranks in the changing air. Shuddering to life as the last shade of gloom inflates the starved lungs of nostalgia, unbidden recollections stretch their limbs. And steeped in the bitter substance of battered pride they claw fresh venom into the raw cuts which have so futilely tried to mend during the relative safety of day. Skulking along the fringes of a falsely lit fête with full knowledge of his wretched countenance, Lehnsherr engages only the glimmers that first summon his attention. So he is dragged along quite unceremoniously until Xavier—as he is always first to realise—curses and bemoans the rut into which the former has stumbled. It is not always that Lehnsherr neglects to dredge himself up from the deep waters. However, the instances in which he possesses little strength to recover himself are great in number. Reinforcement in the form of a certain earnest professor comes in guises eerily fitting for whatever has managed to penetrate Lehnsherr's defences.

Perhaps it is the weight of their gifts that allows them to sink to such depths at alarming speeds. Or perhaps it is the burden of change that sours their pleasures. But never is it to be mistaken that Lehnsherr, Xavier, or any of their colleagues regret or even grace their thoughts with concepts rebelling against a lasting survival. If _homo sapiens _truly fought their inevitable demise and mounted an efficacious resistance—a highly unlikely but not dismissible possibility—the blood shed would be but considered a necessary sacrifice of morals. But while 'if' and 'maybe' are not trusted, neither are they entirely disregarded. After all, the question remains: who is the better man? The proactive approach to future gains has slackened in recent years but the fear of degrading into stagnation has flourished. Now, settling easily with spare minutes saved up from modern convenience, restlessness prods the souls of great men to escape suffocation.

Lehnsherr was past denying his misery. Although the others still danced around the tender subject of conquest, he itched to revert back to brash and reckless endeavours. Unsurprisingly, he jealously guarded this desire from his followers lest they become obstreperous (the last thing he wanted was for an upstart's premature play to undermine the Brotherhood's cause). But not letting slip his mask as he was whisked over the masquerade's dance floor had exhausted the will he used to wall away any contempt he harboured. Whether it be for the memories of the wrongs been done him or the missed opportunities that had grown in importance since their forfeiture, Lehnsherr had left his most valued resource undefended. When he had left Xavier, renounced his friend's desire for peace in lieu of a grander vision, he had also forgone any hope of mending the rift inside himself that had been rent by a man no more enamoured of _homo sapiens_ than Lehnsherr himself. Treading water in this way was beginning to wear him down. Of course he was searching for a handhold like a drowning man, but it seemed that no one was there to throw him a line. Now he was starting to give up.

Tuesday, February eleventh. Two thirty a.m. Unseasonably warm weather had turned snow into filthy sludge lining the roads. Clouds distributed chill raindrops in lieu of the usual flakes. A handful of black umbrellas scurried through the elements in search of shelter or making the last dash for predestined locations. Those who were unlucky enough to have been caught in the deluge ran quickest. Lehnsherr found himself filling such a role. With a distinct lack of foresight, he had decided to cure his wanderlust by strolling through the city. Now thoroughly drenched, teeth clattering together noisily, he took shelter in the lee of some important looking building. He rubbed his eyes wearily.

'Blasted coincidence! I swear if Mystique somehow holds this over my head I'll…' His mutterings were earning sidelong glances but the late hour kept unwanted enquiry at bay. Steeling himself against the misery-inducing weather, Lehnsherr darted again toward home.

Once safely inside his city residence, he slipped out of his shoes and jacket. Both articles were discarded at the door and left to fend for themselves due to his realised fatigue. The extent of his condition as portrayed by his bathroom mirror, however, shocked him. Surely the wan face scrutinising him with such hollow eyes did not belong to him. Undoubtedly. And yet it danced along in grotesque synchronisation with his movements. His thoughts drifted to the hands gripping the sink with white knuckles. Certainly his fingers did not quaver so. But when he ordered them to relinquish the smooth porcelain they obeyed. He dashed water onto his already dripping countenance and his reflection did the same. Blinking through the added moisture, he rested his forehead against the cold, dull mirror. His watchband dug into his wrist but he only leaned into the discomfort. The monotonous drone that had filled his head for days crescendoed until it snuffed out his surroundings.

Clarity returning in the guise of cold skin demanding proper attention, Lehnsherr mechanically shed his wet clothes. The overwhelming impulse to speak out loud in order to repel the disconcerting silence was averted only by the realisation that such actions would simply further his anxious self-accusations of aberrance. Angry whispers pushed to the back of his mind mouthed the unthinkable in his ears as he slipped into pyjamas and under his coverlet without bothering to dry his hair. Faintly, he registered the insistent tone of his phone.

"Lehnsherr," he mumbled, jerking the phone away from his ear as the reply abused his sleepy senses.

"Ah, Erik." A distinctively honeyed voice purred. The call's recipient let out an audible sigh of disgust.

"Were you expecting someone else to answer my private number at this hour?" This habitual quarrelling was observed with both participants' finely honed, well-used insults and accusations. No more than three minutes of it was needed to break the small talk formality and cut to the chase. Lehnsherr was informed of Frost's discrepancy with the former's recent nocturnal adventures. He paused to consider the relationship between his wanderings and Frost's knowledge before angrily retorting, "and how would _you_ know of my latest undertakings?"

To this, Frost merely replied that she was using no more a questionable method than concerned observation.

Lehnsherr felt ice take hold of his stomach. At once he was anxious and fevered. That Frost had resorted to spying on him made him nauseous. A voice enquired his presence on the other end of the line. He muttered a noncommittal response. Mind still reeling with all the conspiracies that had swarmed under the knowledge that his admittedly questionable ally no longer trusted him to…no longer trusted him in any manner pertaining to the operation of his institution, Lehnsherr tried to recapture his breath. God be damned, he _was_ bloody _Magneto_ and if Frost had a problem with his methods of operation then the telepath could come over here and tell him in person.

This did not go over well on the phone. Frost harshly intoned that if the Brotherhood did not start making headway against the plague known as humanity (and one rather troublesome symptom most recently called X-men) then she would take it upon herself to see _homo superior _in their proper place at the head of the proverbial table. Backed into a corner and spectacularly thin on options, Lehnsherr did his best to assure Frost that if the Brotherhood was not enough steps ahead of the lesser population—and he reluctantly admitted that they were not—then it was not unforeseeable that their vision be obstructed. Permanently.

"Emma, we will make our move when I see fit and not one moment before." Correctly predicting that the telepath was about to interrupt he continued, "it would be a shame for us to ignore our full potential to impatiently and imperfectly pursue the realisation of our dream." Lehnsherr could practically see Frost's loathing expression before him in the darkness of his room. His skin crawled as it occurred to him that it might not be beyond her powers to project a faint image of disgust even at this distance. Not for the first time he missed Xavier's restraint. Frost gave a huff that brought Lehnsherr's mind back to the problem at hand.

"Hm…our dream. I'm beginning to wonder if we really do share the same dream, Erik. After all, why shouldn't we claim what is rightfully ours? Why should we be subjected to this discrimination when it is painfully clear that _we_ are superior? What exactly is stopping us? _We_ are the better man—" Lehnsherr slammed the phone. Immediately his hands sought the cool smoothness of Shaw's helmet. Though he couldn't abide the thought of sleeping with it on he vowed never again to let Frost see into his mind. Something was off. Out of place. Dreadfully wrong. And it terrified him. He slept shallowly, dazedly dreaming of fire and furious cries. The sight of a horrified blue gaze silently accusing him jolted him into consciousness.

_ Breathing in the comfort of shadows cast by familiar objects, Erik Lehnsherr strolled through the darkened Westchester estate. It had been a long time, so long he almost couldn't recall, since he had found himself thinking of any place as 'home'. He wasn't sure he could even call the estate home yet, but he thought it would be nice if he learned to do so. And yet there was a subtle charge in the atmosphere that kept him from ease. The black corners of his mind whispered that he would never be trusted. He absently wandered down the hall, his feet unconsciously leading him toward the man about which all of these thoughts revolved. Xavier would welcome him and embarrassedly offer some sly excuse as to why he was up so late—Lehnsherr knew that Xavier was waiting for him but would allow the telepath to avoid directly admitting to skimming his thoughts. He traced a patter on the door of Xavier's study before knocking. Not bothering to wait for an invitation, Lehnsherr stepped into the room. Xavier was seated in an armchair by the fireplace, shoulders slumped in an uncharacteristic display of burden. _

_ "Erik." The telepath greeted, still seemingly lost in thoughts Lehnsherr was certain he wanted no part of but was going to be subjected to anyway. Suddenly, Xavier straightened and waved a hand at the seat across from him. "I wondered who was the mouse I heard creeping about. Seems I'm not the only one who can't sleep." Lehnsherr took the seat offered but gave Xavier a glare that spoke his disapproval in volumes._

_ "Stop pretending, Charles." A flicker of sadness crossed Xavier's face, as though he had hoped to avoid acknowledging that there was something more serious to be discussed than night-time wanderings. The younger man sighed resignedly. _

_ "Forgive me, it's a terrible habit." Lehnsherr idly toyed with the idea of allowing Xavier to incite the conversation but the advantages that the man unwittingly gave himself would prove too much for Lehnsherr's already fragile resolve. Instead he waited for that inevitable kindness to excuse his interruption of Xavier's self inflicted insomnia. "There's something troubling you." It was not a question. Lehnsherr faked a wry smile._

_ "Yes, and like any good student I've come running to 'Professor' with my problems." This elicited a false chuckle from Xavier who didn't need any part of his powers to discern the faint trace of contempt in Lehnsherr's voice. In part, Lehnsherr had expected to dislike this man whose power over people's minds set him on edge. Instead he found that Xavier was somewhat naïve and his restraint was endearing—though sometimes maddening. Now he felt almost guilty for the tone he was taking if only because it was for the platform upon which his 'students' placed him, not Xavier himself. Dropping any pretence of disdain, Lehnsherr raised his eyes from the titles gracing Xavier's well-stocked shelves to meet an equally troubled gaze._

_ "This isn't some light-hearted frustration with my powers to be dealt with through a quick complaint and a vaguely intrapersonal remedy." He fingered the coin in his pocket, drawing resolve from the cold metal. He could see the question of Shaw on Xavier's lips but the telepath paused and sat back thoughtfully. Lehnsherr had to admit he was impressed—though in reality he had expected no less—that Xavier had seen past the problem posed by Shaw. It spoke of what intuitive friendship and reliable camaraderie he would be giving up and he grimaced._

_ "Fair enough. I'll lend an ear and nod in the appropriate places—"_

_ "Don't." Xavier smirked and Lehnsherr felt his face heat in the knowledge that his friend had __been trying to get a rise out of him. And succeeded. "Don't discredit your opinion. Your _unrestricted_ opinions, mind. I don't want to hear that filtered nonsense you think will keep me happy. This isn't just about us, Charles." The smile on Xavier's face was wistful, his eyes downcast and distant._

_ "Then stop playing games assuming I will belittle you." It was the first time he had ever heard anything resembling resentment in the younger man's voice. "You're not here to lament your personal short fallings or your regrettably painful past coming to haunt all of mutant-kind. You're here because as a man you have doubts and concerns, and you're willing to shoulder some responsibility. I admire you for that." Lehnsherr studied his friend, carefully noting the weariness hidden behind that tightly held mask of understanding. Xavier was practically collapsing under the burden of their survival, taking on all the weight Lehnsherr had brought with him without so much as a glimmer of complaint. But he was more than willing (almost pleading) to settle that weight more comfortably._

_ "You know I speak from experience when I tell you not everyone wants peace."_

The sun was rising in a cheery mass of flame over the Xavier mansion. Far cry though it was from Lehnsherr's dreary city quarters, there was little more than the weather to lift one's spirits today. No one had expected the road from the Cuba fiasco to be all sunshine and smiles, and in fact there had been much more time spent far from the border of depression and deep into the realm of contentment than any of them could have previously hoped for. However, the aftershocks that shook Charles Xavier to his core—try as he might to keep them to himself—also had a profound influence over the atmosphere of his institution. It was not an unshakable pain over the loss of his friend, his sister, and his mobility, not some dark brooding sense of abandonment or an uncertain questioning of his own abilities that brought about such days as would stay the spirited birdsong from the grounds. It was a simple, silent disappointment. And because it was simple it encompassed him wholly. It would stretch and grow to envelope the entirety of the estate in a tellingly reluctant manner. Xavier had no wish to burden his students. He would trust them with his life, without a doubt. But to trust _anyone_ else with the furtherance of the cause that he had carried this far would be to give up a piece of himself. Xavier did not like to think of himself as selfish, but he was not fool enough to deny such an accusation. This was his. It was _him_. And so he retuned Hank's tentative smiles, backhandedly complimented Alex, and reassured Sean.

There had only ever been one person _with_—not following—Xavier and they had neither of them foreseen the derailment of their plan that Cuba had imposed. This was his disappointment; the knowledge that things could have been different, and the double-edged blade that had cost him his dearest friend. Xavier was beginning to wonder if the benefits of loosing Lehnsherr truly outweighed the price.

Despite the sunlight, the world viewed from any position outside of the manor was freezing. This necessitated all windows be closed, the fireplace lit in the common room, and the front door to open and close as little as possible. Xavier knew that he was not the only one who felt like a caged animal. Winter had never been exceptionally harsh. The air was frigid and the roads bad, but there had never been a time when he struggled under the suffocating mat of the constant presence of others. As a rule, Xavier liked people. He liked being around them or surrounded by them, he liked that he understood them. But minds grow stagnant as the body fills a routine and therein lay Xavier's affliction. More often than not he found himself filling a role instead of making one. Life was not meant to be acted out but to be forged. Unfortunately the copious amounts of snow outside meant little forging could be done by a man confined to a wheelchair. Xavier, for all intents and purposes, was no longer living.

It had taken Alex avoiding speaking to him as though he had the plague earlier that morning to drive home exactly how deeply they cared for him. They could not leave him even though he had done nothing but require their constant support; they would not leave him even though they could never be what he needed most. What saddened him was his inability to transform their strength into something he could use. He wanted beyond words not to need Lehnsherr, and their compromise brooked no room for faltering.

_ I am so sorry._

From his picture of serene contemplation Xavier dropped his head into his hands. Everyone in the manor heard him, was meant to hear him. Down in his lab Hank's grip tightened around the pen he was using to record his observations. The scientist finished his sentence with unnecessarily heavy strokes. On either side of a foosball table Alex and Sean stopped their game. The blond cursed softly and stalked off down the hall. Sean simply sprawled on the sofa and attempted to think loud enough for Xavier to hear his support. Ororo, the newest addition to the institute, snapped her book shut and slid down from her perch by the window. She tiptoed to Xavier's study and hesitantly knocked on the door. Whilst everyone else had learned that leaving well enough alone worked just about the same as overwhelming the telepath with their companionship, the small girl had yet to experience her professor's guilt ridden conscious. There was an indistinct answer from the other side of the door which Ororo took to be a concession to enter.

"Professor?"

Xavier felt his heart fracture the tiniest bit. The others he could understand, Ororo's concern was unmerited. He mustered a kind smile for her. Wise beyond her years, the pale-haired girl did not return the expression but continued instead,

"You don't have to say anything, and I'm not sure if it will help, but I just want you to know I'm here. We're all here and we'll be here when you need us." She looked down at her feet. "And, Professor, I hope for your sake that you start needing us soon."

As though their positions were reversed Ororo struck the root of the problem. Xavier was both impressed and disconcerted by her astute observation. It was not often that he found himself in a situation he was unable to explain—or at least confronted with a need to explain it. He sighed wearily, not bothering to keep up the pretence of fortitude.

"I sincerely hope I do too." A bubble of laughter rose to his lips as he found himself inexplicably tempted to spill every last concern for this little girl to hear. When Ororo regarded him curiously he simply shook his head. She shifted from foot to foot; suddenly aware that perhaps she was prying into something too personal. "May I tell you a story?"

"Is it about a friend of yours?" Ororo asked sceptically. Xavier bit back a wry grin, the young mutant tryly was sharp as a tack.

"No, but it might make me feel better." Ororo clambered onto the armchair and crossed her legs beneath her. Trying to lighten the mood, for himself as much as for Ororo, Xavier cleared his throat and affected an overly grim expression. "Centuries ago, when the world had droves of secrets left to discover and man lived closer to nature, two friends were confronted with a dilemma. You see, one believed that all strong men should forsake their weaker brothers so that society might advance faster. The other argued that it was forsaking their society to step on their own kind. And this was not even half of the problem. For the strong men of the world were also split between these ideals." Xavier paused.

"So what did they do?" Ororo prompted. The professor's gaze grew distant as he sought to put words to his conflict.

"They tried to persuade each other. Long discussions, which were never quite devoid of too personal sentiments, kept both of them up late into the night. In the end, neither succeeded in convincing the other that they were right and they hedged out a plan. The man who wanted to take strength forward would start chipping away at the barrier presented by weaker men while the man who saw those weaker as part of the natural order would act as a shield, to protect the weak from the strong but even more so to protect his friend from destroying society."

Ororo scrunched up her face.

"It's not a very good ending is it?"

* * *

Well, that's that. This is my first attempt at anything X-men and originally some of the passages were written for a Hetalia AU (however I though they fit better in this instance). There is a slight Erik/Charles feel to it though I do not mean for that to be the main aim. They are quite independent characters who happen to find solace in each other's company, I am not one of those fans who drools over the two destroying every bit of the world to get the other out of trouble (or because one has self-preservation issues).

Mini rant done. Please Review and let me know what you think! I love how this fandom keeps growing!


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